Obligation
by bluecharlotte
Summary: They're at a steakhouse, their first real dinner in months, and Sam's not going to ruin it with his hallucinations. But he can't control his gag reflex, and Dean's very persistent when he knows something's wrong.


**A/N: I spent a couple days on this, and I thought I'd publish it sooner than later. I just really needed Dean to be all nice and brotherly. It takes place in early Season 7 (before or after Amy would both work), but there are no specific episode spoilers aside from general season stuff. Rated M for blood-and-goriness with Sam's hallucinations, (sort of) cannibalism, and swearing. ****Also, I reference "Brain Damage" by Pink Floyd and "In the End" by Linkin Park. **Anyway, hope you enjoy this. :)

* * *

"_Seriously though, Bobby. Look at our lives. How many more hits can we take? ...I just...just this one thing. You know?"_

- 7.01, Meet the New Boss

"_I wasn't hiding it, Dean, I – I was just not talking about it. I mean it seemed like you two had enough going on as it was."_

- 7.02, Hello, Cruel World

_Oh, I never meant to cause you trouble,_

_and I never meant to do you wrong._

_And oh, well if I ever caused you trouble,_

_Oh no, I never meant to do you harm._

"Trouble" – Coldplay – _Parachutes_

The very last thing Sam wants is to be an obligation to Dean. This has been a fundamental truth for him since long before the Leviathans, before he went to Hell, before he triggered the Apocalypse, before even Stanford, but after the warehouse and the close call and _stone number one_, it's the only thing he can really be sure of.

Dean has always said it's his job to take care of Sam _affectionately_. Because underneath it all he _wants_ to. And Sam can't let that change. His brother may know how much of a freak he is, but that doesn't mean Sam shouldn't try to save him from the worst of it. From the obligatory comfort that, even if it helps Sam, can't possibly be something Dean wants to deal with. Touchy-feely stuff, even just a reassuring hand on the shoulder, has never been Dean's forte. (Not to the extent that he'll admit to it, at least.)

All that aside, Sam knows that Dean will never try to help himself—will never _be okay_—until he's sure _Sam_ is okay. And Sam isn't about to keep Dean from being okay. It's an idiotic cycle of codependency, but it's their reality, and honestly Sam really _is_ fine for the most part, feels like his dues are paid now that he's out of the Cage with a soul in his chest. Even if he wasn't, he feels like they need room to build trust again.

So he'll grin and bear it on his bad days, let Dean know that he's fine, he's still Sammy and he's _back_. Because Goddammit, he just _can't_ become just another terror to deal with, another daily obligation. He won't weigh Dean down more than he already has.

Today, though, Lucifer is showing up a lot. It's nothing Sam can't handle, but it's getting a little annoying to have to press on his hand every five seconds, especially when a lot of the time the echoing laughter just edges back in.

He's also a little afraid of what the Devil will do to their dinner. He and Dean have been on the road for a couple days, but tonight they've stopped at a reasonable hour in some town in Michigan (it must be Michigan; he remembers that they decided mutually a few hours earlier to avoid Detroit like the plague) because Dean saw a sign for this steakhouse, and these days they take all the chances they get. Walking into the place, Sam steels himself. His food is a frequent target for Lucifer's fun, but he really needs it to stop, just this one time. _You are not ruining this for him, just look at his face, you're not ruining this too, just don't even try. _He isn't sure whether it's directed at Lucifer or at himself. He just knows Dean is excited and he can't let anything get in the way of that.

Yeah, Dean is excited. He actually doesn't notice when the hostess assumes they're gay—he must not have, because he looks a little shocked when she winks at them after she gives them their menus, saying "I'll just leave you two alone now"—and she's actually kind of hot but Dean doesn't even seem all that bothered so he must be seriously—

"Even the _beer_ here is awesome, man. I mean, look at the menu. What is this? This place better be in my Heaven, 'cause we are _so_ coming back."

Sam smiles, shifts a little on his side of the booth. "Yeah, it's pretty—damn, they've got a lot of Sierra Nevada. Nobody ever has these ones. I thought they were seasonal."

"I am _so_ getting a Torpedo."

So they order and of course they both get rib-eyes because they've always agreed they're the best part of the—and Sam refuses to think about where the rib-eyes are _coming from_ because that can only make things worse. Instead he thinks about how funny it'd be to see Dean trying to flirt with a waitress who thinks he's gay. When he mentions this Dean scowls at him and gives him the finger with a casual jab at his sexuality, and Sam thinks about that instead of steak, about how his brother is actually in a good mood and he is not ruining this.

He's feeling pretty optimistic by the time their drinks come. It's not like Lucifer—his brain, that is, not really Lucifer, Lucifer's in the Cage—has to mess with everything. And when they get their dinners, they look pretty normal. Appetizing, even. Dean is grinning; everything's going fine.

That is, until Sam slices into his steak and takes a bite. Then suddenly he has a mouthful of blood and when he looks down the meat is legitimately raw under his fork and it looks like human skin and there's blood and guts fucking _everywhere_. He should've known the lack of Lucifer was just the eye of the storm.

He looks up and Dean has this blissful expression on his face and his lips are crimson. When he smiles and gives Sam a thumbs-up, Sam glimpses blood and raw meat in his mouth and it's _on his teeth on _my_ teeth oh God it's everywhere_—

Sam forces a smile back, and thankfully Dean is too distracted by eating to notice that it's fake. When he looks down again Sam grits his teeth and sets his utensils down to surreptitiously let his hands—which are bloody now, _thank you very much_—drop to his lap. Digging his nails into the scar does nothing, maybe because he's not pressing hard enough, but he suspects it's just the fact that Lucifer isn't even showing, just spattering red all over the place. The smell of blood might lessen a little, and his vision is a little less red around the edges, but it's still in his mouth and it's making him feel sick and there is no way he's going to ruin this for Dean because it's the first real dinner they've had in months but—

"Oh, dude, you have to try this. It's orgasmic. I'm not even joking."

Sam looks up and Dean is actually grinning now and he can't ruin this but—but oh _God_, the thing on Dean's fork is an eye, like an actual _eyeball_, and it's bloody as hell and the optic nerve is twitching somehow where it swings above Dean's plate, little spurts of blood coming out to add to the mess below and Sam has no idea what the hell the thing on the fork actually is but he just can't look at it.

He swallows hard, almost gagging when he realizes he just swallowed a mouthful of bloody raw meat, and grabs the napkin out of his lap to press it hard to his lips, pretending that he's wiping his mouth when really he's just trying not to throw up. _No barfing. No barfing. You are not ruining this_.

"Suit yourself." There's a pause—_Dean's eating the eye oh God did it just pop it did didn't it fucking hell_—and Sam focuses on the table and slowly put the napkin back in his lap. "You okay, Sammy? Don't tell me you've lost your taste for some good red meat."

Sam looks up and ignores the red, makes himself concentrate on Dean's eyes. They're green as ever, and behind the joking glint Sam can see a hint of worry that he needs to eradicate. He laughs, shaking his head.

"No, 'course not." _No, not ruining anything tonight. It's not real. There's no blood and the steak is good just eat it it's good. _He takes another bite and when he concentrates it tastes almost normal, like steak, _good_ steak, but when he chances a glance back down he sees intestines. Or what looks like them.

_Shit, is that a palm or—oh God I just ate some of that—oh fuck this is disgusting—_

Okay, so maybe he _is_ going to barf, but not while Dean's looking.

After a moment Sam manages to swallow despite his gag reflex. Then he clears his throat and decides he's dealing pretty well, given the circumstances. "I think I'm gonna go to the bathroom," he mutters, not even looking up in case Dean notices something's wrong. He's already standing beside the booth, slightly unsure on his feet, when he adds, "Be right back."

Dean might've said something in response, but Sam decides it can wait, whatever it is. He barely manages to keep himself from clenching his hands as he walks away. God, he hopes the dizziness is because of the nausea and not just the blood. That would be pathetic.

He actually has no idea where the bathroom is, but everything is kind of a blur of red and everyone around him is eating stringy raw meat with their husbands and wives and children and he can't look around but he can't just run out because Dean might be watching.

His pace keeps increasing until he's pretty sure he's out of Dean's line of sight, at which point he just races for the nearest door. It turns out to be the one leading outside, but he has no problem with that. He's hit with a rush of cold air, and the parking lot behind the restaurant is all cars and no people, saplings between parking spaces swaying gently in the wind. Safe. _Empty_.

He leans against the side of the building a few yards from the door and swallows convulsively once before bending over and puking onto tanbark and bushes.

_Empty_.

When it's over he freezes for a moment and spits. He doesn't actually feel much better. The hallucinations seem to be gone, but he can't stop thinking about the meat, the blood, raw in his brother's mouth, in _everyone's_ mouth—

Sam shuts his eyes tight and tries to take a deep breath, but all he smells is his own vomit. He swears and stumbles a few feet further from the door, dry heaving. He can hear Lucifer laughing behind him, making some snide comment about how little Sammy's a wuss who can't hold his liquor, and he thinks _so much for hallucinations being gone_, but he doesn't have the energy to get rid of him.

(And he's kind of afraid he'll look up and find no one there, find that it really is just his head now, not even a hallucination, just another part of him that wants him to suffer.)

A few seconds after he starts dry heaving, there's a hand on the back of his neck. His immediate reaction is to shrug it off, to fight, but when he tries to twist away it presses slightly harder and there's a voice in his ear and the familiarity stops him. _Fucking Dean._ He groans, annoyed, but it comes out more pained than anything. And he's still gagging too much to tell his brother to fuck off like he wants to.

"I'm right here, just—just focus on my voice," Dean is saying, "no more barfing. It's okay Sammy, I've got you." Sam closes his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut and takes a few deep breaths, holding himself still. It feels like Dean's hand on his neck is the only thing keeping him upright. He doesn't want him to let go. "Hey, come on Sam, you're fine, you're okay, you're gonna be okay."

Sam lets out a long breath and opens his eyes, staring down at the sidewalk. It swims a little. His eyes must be watering. "Dean." He means to say something else, but he's so out of breath that he runs out of air before he can try.

"Yeah?"

"Dean," he says finally, standing up, "what'd you follow me for?"

Dean's hand drops from where it'd slid to on Sam's shoulder, albeit a little reluctantly. He eyes him skeptically. "Maybe 'cause you looked like you were gonna puke? I think I'm kinda justified in this one, Sam. You're practically still heaving." Sam gives him an annoyed, incredulous look, hoping to brush it off. "Really, man. What's going on?"

"Come on." Sam clears his throat, swiping a hand over his face. "I'm fine."

"Yeah. Fine. Obviously. And you just randomly decided to puke your guts out, thought it'd be fun?" Dean crosses his arms, waiting. Behind him Lucifer is laughing darkly, blood in his teeth and dripping down to his chin, but Sam isn't about to touch the scar on his hand and draw attention to it.

He forces himself to look at his brother and nothing else.

"There was probably something in my steak. Or maybe it was something I ate earlier, I don't know. I did feel kind of sick in the car, actually." Dean purses his lips. "I just—Dean, I just didn't want to bother you! It's no big deal. I feel better already. Let's just...go back inside." _Even though I feel sick at the thought_.

Dean's eyebrows go up marginally. "Really. We've been over this already, Sam." _Goddammit he doesn't buy it_.

"Of course he doesn't _buy_ it, you dopey idiot," Lucifer jeers, smirking, "he thinks you're Hell in a handbasket! He doesn't _trust_ you, he's been watching you this whole time. Waiting for you to _crack_."

"Sam? Sammy?" Sam's eyes snap back to his brother. "It's Lucifer, isn't it."

Sam opens his mouth, closes it. Shakes his head, if only for something to do. "Look, man, I'm fine now, okay? It doesn't matter what it was."

"_I had to fall_," Lucifer sings, "_to lose it all, but in the end, it doesn't even matter!_"

"Doesn't _matter?_ Sam, you can't just—" Dean's face screws up slightly in frustration. "I want you to be able to tell me when this shit is happening, okay? So I can help you. I mean, if I'm eating rib-eye and the Morningstar's got the wheel and you're not saying anything...and hell, here I can actually kind of relate. I'm not _completely_ useless, you know."

Sam shoots him a questioning glance. "What do you mean?"

Dean simply shrugs. "You catch me eating much steak back when I first got topside? Not very appetizing, considering. If nothing else, I get that part of it. And I said already, just—why the hell would you want to _hide_ this? I don't mind taking you out for a breath of fresh air if it'll keep you from barfing all over your shoes, Sammy. Really."

Sam bites his tongue, feeling like a jerk. "Sorry." In the background Lucifer's still singing Linkin Park; after a moment he presses his thumb hard into the scar on his left palm. Dean pretends he doesn't notice. By the time Sam looks up again, the Devil's gone. He doesn't put too much thought into it; he'll be back soon enough anyway. "I just didn't want to—you know."

Dean quirks his eyebrows up in that big brother way of his, wholly concerned and expectant. Sam hates how much he has missed that look. "I know?"

"I just didn't want to—tobeanobligation."

"What?"

Sam licks his lips and wonders if maybe he's not done puking yet. "You heard me."

Dean looks bewildered. "Obli_ga_tion?" He stares at Sam for a moment, probably awaiting an explanation, but when nothing is forthcoming he continues: "What're you talking about? When have you ever been an—an obligation?" Sam shrugs, wishing he hadn't said anything. He's just making it worse. "You're my _brother_, dude. There's nothing obligatory going on here. I _want_ to help you. I _want_ you to—to stop having to deal with this bullshit all the time! Okay? There is no _obligation_ involved."

Sam fumbles with his words for a second before replying. "Look, I know, I just...I know you want to help, but I'm sure you get tired of all the—the trying to make me feel better, fake comforting crap, and I didn't want to ruin your steak with a face-full of Hell. And puke."

"Okay, let's get one thing straight here. The fake comforting crap? That is not obligatory! If it was, hell, you know me—I probably wouldn't be doing it. And what's the point of steak if there's no one to enjoy it with? That's just pigging out, man."

Sam shakes his head, scoffing down at the pavement, but he can't avoid grinning just a little.

"Sammy, come on. You know me. Better than...pretty much anyone. Fixing you up is part of the job description." _Job_. When Sam purses his lips, eyes still on the ground, Dean actually groans. "Oh, come on, man, you know what I mean."

Sam laughs it off. "Yeah, I know." And he does, somewhere deep down. He just needs to re-learn it. Hopefully soon it'll sink back in that their life isn't about obligation; it's about having options and choosing each other anyway.

"Okay, so we got this straight? You gonna say something the next time the lunatic is in your head?"

"_Dark Side of the Moon_, Dean? Really?"

Dean grins, looking like a ten-year-old, quotes again: "It's marvelous!"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Shut up."

"Hey. Sam. You didn't answer me yet."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll tell you." Dean gives him a very careful, scrutinizing look, and the green of his eyes is the best color Sam has ever seen. Or is that the emotion behind them? "Okay, God, I will!"

"Promise?" Quirked eyebrows, waiting.

"Yes. Fine. Promise."

"All right then. You gonna need to throw up again if we go back inside right now?"

Sam flinches. "Um." He can still taste the vomit on his teeth, and his legs are shaky, and the blood... He swallows and wipes a hand across his mouth. "Well, uh..."

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Sorry." Sam looks down and is extremely conscious of the puddle of his vomit a few feet away from where Dean is standing.

"Would you stop _apologizing?_ We can stay out here as long as you want, Sammy. I don't mind. Really, I'm serious. Here, lemme tell you what I did to keep my mind off it...'cause you know I couldn't go long without beef. Hey, don't you make that face at me! You're gonna _love_ steak again by the end of this conversation."

Sam grins despite himself and tries to blink away the tight feeling in his chest, but it's not much use with Dean's eyes glinting at him in the dark, Dean's voice casually crushing his fears like he did when they were still kids.

Okay. So maybe, _sometimes_, Sam can let his brother do his job.


End file.
